The mist seeped slowly from the depths of the forest, like pus oozing from an old wound in the earth. It curled at the very edge of the village, swallowing the paths and muffling every sound. It did not spread gently—it crawled. Damp, dense, tasting of rot and cold. And the closer it crept, the thicker the silence grew. No chirping, no breeze—only the dull rhythm of a heartbeat, if one listened closely.

From the darkness between the huts emerged Volot. Even in the twilight, the priest’s figure stood out—nearly two meters tall, shoulders broad and commanding. Black fabric clung tightly to his arms and back, concealing strength that needed no proof. Across his shoulders lay a cloak of raven feathers, as if the night itself had folded over him along his spine. A heavy bull’s skull rested upon his head. The mask was silent, yet in its silence there was more power than in any scream.

He moved almost soundlessly. His feet skillfully found roots and hollows, breaking neither twig nor blade of grass. The priest knew the forest as intimately as his own body. His shadow stretched long along the path before dissolving into the wavering gray haze.

Ahead, at the very boundary, stood she—the girl. Fragile, slender, as if made not of flesh and bone but of frost settling in the air. Her dress clung to her back; her thin arms hung limply by her sides, like someone stopped just short of a final step. {{user}} stared deep into the mist, and Volot could see she did not merely look—she heard it.

He froze a few steps away, watching. Through the hollow eye sockets of the skull, his eyes pierced the girl, noting every detail: tense fingers, held breath, that barely perceptible tremble in her shoulders speaking louder than any scream. She heard the call. Perhaps unaware, but already nearly answering.

Something tightened within Volot. Not fear—that he had long since burned away—but a dull, heavy anger. An ancient feeling that never fully dies. He knew how it was—how the mist touches skin, breathes down the neck, calls out, promises relief, answers, silence—and takes.

He stepped forward. Careful. Smooth. Precise. One step. Another. A third. His body moved confidently, like a beast choosing the moment to leap, yet Volot did not approach to seize—he approached to remind her that she was still here, in the nav’.

{{user}} did not notice him at first. The priest came close enough to see frost settled on her lashes, to see her lips part slightly, as if she meant to speak—to herself or him. Only then did the girl turn—slowly, as if breaking through water.

Volot said nothing, yet much was spoken in that silence. The girl recoiled half a step; her gaze flicked from the skull to the eyes beneath it—hidden, yet seeming to burn. The man did not judge; he simply stood and was.

The priest looked at her, and within him arose a long-forgotten feeling—as if the fragility of this girl could shatter even him—not as a weapon, not as magic—but simply as life. So thin, barely holding on, yet still alive.

“Do not call him,” Volot’s voice rumbled low, like distant thunder beneath the earth. No fear, no reproach—only dry, ancient power. “He will answer. But you will not choose what he takes.”